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I PO EMS I 

I BY I 

I SAM JONES WILLINGHAM. | 



BALTIMORE 

SAULSBURY PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



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COPYRIGHT, 1918 

BY 

SAM JONES WILLINGHAM. 






©CLA49G904 
FEB 14 1318 



CONTENTS. 

Page. 
Pioneers of the Church 5 

The Massacre 6 

Dodd's Ride 7 

The Lone Sentry 8 

Huerta 8 

The Conflict 9 

The Victory 9 

Our Hero 10 

To M. J. W _-ll 

The Homestead 12 

Speech of Tecumseh 14 

A Prayer 22 

Fort Mims 14 

Battle of Horseshoe Bend 16 

The Heroine 17 

Our President 19 

The Crucifixion, Burial and Resurrection 20 

Liberty or Death? 23 

Reminiscence 24 

In Memory of Julia Studwick Tutwiler 26 

The Mounds 27 

The Cruise of The Alabam'i 28 



PIONEERS OF THE CHURCH. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Stood fifty years, — ay, fifty years and seven, — 

The church, her portals gateways unto Heaven; 

There, shaking off their cumberings and care, 

Passed many an itinerant forbear, 

Who, finding partial refuge there and rest 

From earthly strife, long have passed with the Blest 

To fairer lands, sweet realms beyond the sky, — 

To the tried heart 'tis sweet in Christ to die. 

From the pulpit, facing the listening throng, 
The preacher praised us, chided half our wrong; 
The text read, then gave out the opening song, 
(Which my grand-sire, then my sire, led so long,) 
Nay, I believe the order was reversed, 
HeVead the text, but gave the song out first, 
The song done, kneeling there with solemn air, 
(The congregation bowing all in prayer,) 
His supplication for the v/orld at large 
Went up to Heaven, faithful to his charge; 
To love God, the church, and their neighbors all, 
Strew flowers in their pathway to the pall ; 
To mind the orphan, all the poor as well, 
To visit the sick and the prisoner's cell ; 
The Bible read, obeying its commands, — 
Its counsels spread to distant heathen lands. 

Round the altar, at times and service meet, 
The penitent bowed at the Master's feet; 
The Pioneers, joining with one accord, 
Implored for him the favor of the Lord; 
While kneeling still before that holy shrine, 
The benediction came from Heaven divine. 

'Tis changed! those godly Patriarchs no more 
Bend o'er that shrine— whose memory we adore; 
Gone, no more shall we look upon their face. 
Vainly we seek for others to take their place. 



THE MASSACRE. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

It was a wicked plan, 
A sort of plot, or cabal, 

Wrought by the Mexican 

On the American 

Near the ranch Santa Ysabel. 

The train was loaded down 
With miners strong and hale 

Bound for Chihuahua town, 

That city, whose renown 
Is but a bloody tale. 

As on, by vale and villa. 
Sped fast the laden train. 

Some followers of Villa, 

That leader of guerilla 

Warfare, joined the refrain. 

While o'er the tunnel road 
Were speeding to their tasks 

The innocent, aboard 

The train, up sprang the horde 
Of bandits all in masks. 

The cars stopped; frightened fled 

The inmates all around; 
The rifle cracked ; the dead 
Forms, riddled, scarred, and red. 
Were strewn upon the ground. 

Martyrs to a noble call. 

The sacred call of duty; 
While thy untimely fall 
We lament, through it all 
We still can discern beauty. 



6 



DODD'S RIDE." 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Late, when the day was nearing to close, 
Said Dodd unto his men: 
"We'll ride all night, fall on our foes, 
Ere the day has broke again." 

The soldiers were eager, impatient to start 
Upon that perilous ride; 

Each pulse beat faster, each throb of the heart 
Pumped faster the gory tide. 

At last, when all was ready, the word 

Was given to move ahead; 

Each man by the fate of his countrymen stirred,- 

The innocent who are dead. 

Galloping down the steep divide, 
Over the deep aroyos, 
Swept Dodd, upon his midnight ride. 
With his four-hundred warriors. 

Unawed by danger, fraught with hope, 
And chilled by mountain air, 
They plunged onward down slope after slope, 
And over ledges bare. 

For seventeen long hours they rode, 
Down the mountain's rocky steep ; 
To reach, ere day, the bandit horde 
No time was there for sleep. 

At last, when rose the smiling sun. 
Peeping o'er hill and fen. 
The Vill'anous bandits learned, each one, 
Of the riding of Dodd's men. 



THE LONE SENTRY. 

To Fred A. Griffin, former resident of Cottondale, Ala., 
who was killed March 9, 1916, at Columbiis, N. M., by 
Villa bandits. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

'TAvas early; ere the breaking dawn 
Dispelled the hoar mist from the lawn; 
While yet the town's folk, sleeping all, 
Were dreaming — but not of the pall — 
So slept the soldiers, too, — save one, — 
'Twas the lone sentry, our brave son. 

Still serenely the soldiers slept. 
Stealthily up the bandits crept; 
No sound was heard by the patrol, 
Save, now and then, the cock's long dole; 
"Qui vive!" he cried, there quickly came 
The stern reply of volleyed flame; 
He fell! — but for his life-blood's flow 
Two dead Mexicans were to show. 

Sleep hero ! but wake thy renown. 
Thy martyrdom, which saved the town. 
Inspire thy comrades, every one. 
To covet the fame thou hast won. 



HUERTA. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

From the land, exiled still in death. 
Whose air-dome lent his first-drawn breath, 
He, forced in age, for sable crime. 
To flee to lands of softer clime — 
From all his home-land's tropic heat — 
On these mild shores found a retreat. 
Whose charity could not refuse, 
(For contumely at Vera Cruz) 
The dead tyrant a peaceful vault, 
To rest, unblamed of all his fault. 

8 



THE CONFLICT. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 
(Written before the United States entered the war.) 

Gay pennons, o'er the striving hosts, 

Flaunt freely in the breeze; 
Each optimistically boasts 

Of ancient victories. 

"Charge!"— Hear the cheerful battle-cry 

Of soldiers, now elate, — 
Next the dread notes of agony: 

Is that the warrior's fate? 

No sun is seen up in the sky, 

(What din is heard below!) 

The reeking cannon, from the eye, 

Shuts out his noon-day glow. 

The drummer beats a loud tattoo, 

As of the days of yore. 
While Napoleon walks at Waterloo 

His rounds of death once more. 

What means this gory conflict, all 

This blood-shed, all this strife? 
If empires flourish where men fall 

Can ?.ug-ht atone for life? 



THE VICTORY. 

By S. J. Willingham. 

Let us rejoice! exult as one. 
The suflfrage cast, the triumph won! 
Our prayers are answer'd — Parliament 
Stands firm behind the President — 
And still sails on the noble, free, 
Unhamner'd, o'er the neutral sea. 



OUR HERO. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

'Twas Sunday morn. — The Spanish fleet, 

Lay idly in the bay; 
Nor cannon's din, nor drummer's beat, 

Disturbed the peaceful day. 

From shore the matin bells had pealed 
Their summons through the air, — 

From churches, where the people kneeled 
In supplicating prayer. 

Ere long the peaceful silence broke: 

Forgetful of the day, 
The cannon's blast, the drummer's stroke, 

Awoke the sleeping bay. 

"To hold within the Spanish pack. 

And seal their fate forlorn, 
A man must sink the Merrimack 

This lovely Sabbath morn." 

"A volunteer?" the captain cried; 

"I will!" the quick reply; 
Next the ship 'neath the surging tide, — 

He did not fear to die! 

But not the brightest stars that shine 

In honor's diadem 
Flicker from war's dread battle-line, 

A sparkling, dazzling gem. 

Hast thou, kind reader, yet surmised 

His name, of whom I speak? 
Hast not? Behold him ostracised, 

Truth branded on his cheek, — 

In congress, — ay, but not for fame, — 
Nor worldly pomp, — nor shov/, — 

Where cast in pleading Justice* name 
A single vote veto. 

10 



Svvorn enemy of Bacchus, too; 

Strong, fearless, unrelenting, 
'Tii from sea to sea, lake to bayou, 

No more his camps are tenting. 

To him, all homage and renown, 
Give, who, v/ith zeal unswerving, — 

Though from the burgher's seat cast down- 
Mis' country still is serving. 



fh J. w. 

Progenitor, departed sire! 

Ay, victim to a vengeance dire! 

Would thou couldst, from that Heavenly throng, 

Speak to us of the caitiff's wrong,— 

Tell how, while gasping for thy breath. 

He closed thine eyelids, stark m death, — 

How stamped thy body till he knew 

Its soul from Earth to Heaven had flew. 

Would then the skeptic doubt no more. 

Say that thy hand didst shed thy gore, — 

Would pleading Justice be appeased, — 

The friends of righteous law be pleased; — 

Nay, Heaven will part, at harvest time. 

The wheat of truth from tares of crime! 

Insane, — the common vulgar sect 

Have called thee "crazy," I suspect — 

But who, — so destitute of brain, — 

Would brand thee "fool," who was insane? 

To thee, (though colleges denied 

A seat,) kind Nature hath supplied, — 

In lieu of all the schoolmen's lore — 

Of "common sense," an ample store. 

"Defunct?" — Nay, transported on High 

Is thy soul — it shall never die! — _ 

Nor dead on Earth!— nay, while this mmd, 

Through Memory's window, may look behind— 

Upon the Past— I'll view thee still, 

In dreams, though wander where I v/ill. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Sweet homestead! lovely mansion of my heart, 
Lovelier to me than palaces thou art, — 
Scene where my father — poor man! he is dead — 
The Bible opened, from its pages read, — 
Read, while I listened, with inquiring look, 
To all the mysteries of that wondrous Book, 
Com.mended, in his good paternal way, 
Its counsels, closed it, then said, "Let us pray." 

All knees bent while the godly patriarch prayed — 
Invoked on us the Father's love and aid, — 
Nor us alone, on all the world distressed — 
Implored forgiveness for our sins confessed, 
Asked protection through the long night, and when 
The bright day broke, protection still. Amen. 

The preacher, out upon his parish rounds, 
Found hospitality there without bounds. 
And the poor stranger, homeless and forlorn. 
By night o'ertaken, sojourned there till morn; 
Poor were thy inmates, sharing all the more 
With him, the beggar, of their meagre store, — 
Susceptible to all their common cares. 
What opulence withholds dearth often spares. 

Dilapidated, deserted, forlorn. 

Thy gable still greets first the coming morn; 

But from thy hall is gone on either side 

A room, a piazza hath ill supplied, — 

One where slept the cousin and gray-haired aunt, 

The other served the passing militant. 

Poor girl! ill-fated as that ancient room, 

Inhabitant now of the silent tomb — 

Nay, not there; no! His but thy worthless dust 

Lies there; thy soul's in Heaven; meet we must! 

The soul's not born of Earth, therefore the grave 

Cannot claim it, claim what it never gave. 

But born of God, it seeks His face on high, — 

The prodigal soul seeks for Hell to die. 

12 



"Poor then?" nay, richer thou art than we far, 
The Bank of Heaven's shares stand above par — 
But the dear Aunt, still lingering on the way, 
Serenely waits for that inevitable Day. 

Where once the kitchen stood is nought but air, 
The spot o'errun by the bold ploughman's share; 
The smoke-house, dairy, the fence, and the gate — 
Their story's told — all have met a like fate; 
The garden, too, yea, all is gone, to tell 
The truth, save two rooms, some trees, and the well- 
Nay, one more solitary building stands, 
The corn-crib, built by my dear father's hands, 
What is still left has undergone such change, 
When standing there I feel uncomfortably strange. 

Still farther back is the necropolis. 
The long abode of loved ones whom we miss — 
Grand-parents, father, uncle, sister dear, 
And cousin mine, to others some as near. 

Not far away, low-skirting on the wood, 
In humble mien the widow's cottage stood; 
There, where she toiled, subsistence to acquire, 
Her sons, her daughters, often let for hire; _ 
Though scant, her independence she maintained, 
And Charity's weak offerings disdained. 
Nought there now i:ut a brief expanse of land. 
O'er which the cotton plant's long arms expand, — 
Where patiently still plods the laboring swain, 
From the scant soil scant competence to gain. 

The apple, peach, and all the other trees, 
Which supplied nectar to the laboring bees, 
Are gone, scarce one of them is still alive, — 
Dend are the bees and gone is the bee-hive. 

Dear Homestead ! dearer still to me for all 

Thy desolation, thy impending fall;_ 

Home of my youth! my undiluted joy, 

Of happiness unfeigned, without alloy; 

Old homestead! theme of this, my simple lay, 

X, too, like thee, am hastening to decay. 

IS 



SPEECH OF TECUMSEH. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

In accents weird, v/e cannot speak, 

The Shawnee greeted the fierce Creek; 

The calumet, from lip to lip, 

Went round — that token of friendship; 

Manoeuvering, in gestures rare, 

Marched twain around the courtly square; 

Likewise, in savage escapade. 

Danced round the wigwam in parade; 

To every point of Compass turned. 

Tobacco and the sumac burned, 

Thrilling alike, with ghastly awe. 

Both v/ar-like Creek and friendly Choctaw. 

Thence to the Council Hall repaired, — 

Willi cheeks aglow and eyeballs glared, 

The Creeks exhorted to the ax, 

(Who, once committed, ne'er relax,) 

'Mid shouts and yells of loud applaud. 

Urged them retrieve the white man's fraud; 

The tomahawk, the unsheathed blade. 

Both sanctioned what the Chieftain said. 



FORT MIMS. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

How merrily the children played 
Behind the circled palisade! 
The housewife scarcely dared to own 
The sorrow which her heart had known; 
Shy rustic maids and irncouth swains 
Were catering to martial strains; 
The soldiers, fearing nought of harm, 
(Allured by Summer's myriad charm,) 
Their carbines and their scabbards laid 
Beneath the stately oak tree's shade. 
So placidly the river flowed, 
(Bearing along its fecund load,) — 
14 



So sweet its rythmic tones, and clear, 
They fell like music on the ear. 
The corn-fields glistened, rife with grain,— 
The quails were whistling on the plain — 
The birds, among the blossoming trees, 
Sweet notes were chanting to the breeze: 
All nature, seeming to rejoice. 
Lent to the air her cheerful voice. 

The day sped light! — the tocsin's knell 
Brought from the watch the sentinel! 
The drum beat loud, — that kind appeal! 
That summons to the mid-day meal. — 
Marched grandams, maids, all, to the board, — 
The soldier sheathed his bloodless sword; 
The spark, contented, held his place 
Beside his dame with courtly grace. 
(Ah! Love's nepenthe, sweetest balm! 
Which War's forebodings e'en can calm.) 
The foe suspecting from afar. 
The gate, unguarded, stood ajar. 

See! on they come! the painted horde, 

Riding ahead is Weatherford 1 

A leap! a bound! they make the gate! 

"Our guns! our swords!" — (ah! 'tis too late,) 

Axe, tomahawk, buzz through the air, 

(Mingled with woman's, child's despair,) 

Till smiting, in their thirst for gore, 

Five hundred mortals, plus a score; 

To those grim forms, in death defied, 

The scathing torch, the flame, applied. 

Still flowed the sympathetic flood, — 
His heart pumped the Caucasian blood 
Athwart his convoluted brain, 
That he beheld the women slain, 
Protested to his men in vain. 
Gave to his charger free the rein, 
(Velocity, the Eagle's speed. 
Imparting to the panting steed,) 
Rode from the scene with moistened eyes. 
Wept oft o'er that dire sacrifice. 

15 



BATTLE OF HORSESHOE BEND. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 



"Complacent?" — Yea, in Horseshoe Bend 
'•.Vli'jt evil should they apprehend? — 
A stalwart bastion to augment, 
From front, the ancient, weird portent; 
The Tallapoosa, deep and strong, 
From rear, vouchsafed them from all wrong; 
To these assurances, afford 
Their leader, William Weatherford, — 
Yet more than these : their battle cry, 
The Seer's ominous prophecy! 



The melancholy winds of March 

Were moaning round that fated arch ! 

The children's merry shout within 

Contrasted with that doleful din; 

Obedient to a drastic law. 

Plied at her task the weary squaw, — 

V»'hiie from the chase, that gay carouse, 

Lounged idly round her lazy spouse, — 

Gmoked at his pipe or story told 

(?f liuni;sman skilled or warrior bold. 



A charge! the oak and beech line stood 
An ill-match for the harder wood ; 
Then quiet vanished like a dream, 
Ueigned Pandemonium supreme! 
Swift, deftly on the crouching horde 
Wrought the carbine and flashing sword! 
The torch applied, the blinding smoke 
From Ihs doomed fortress slowly broke, 
And ere the sun next morning shone 
Upon that scene so bare, so lone. 
For Fort Minis, that dire sacrifice. 
Eight hundred Indians had paid the price. 



16 



THE HEROINE. 

How fast they rode! — the retreating Federals 
Hovv close behind! — the pursuing Rebels. 

Forrest, "the Wizard of the Saddle," 
Eager! — hungering for battle! 

Streight, leader of the fleeing Yanks, 
Warrior! — striving to reach his banks. 

So, fast and faster still they rode, 
Crossing the Warrior at Rocky Ford. 

Reaching a creek of the same name, 
Crossing, they left the bridge aflame. 

On the shore, nearby, a sentinel 
Guarded the ford, which was a — swell. 

Scarce out of sight the vanishing horde 
When up near the creek "the Wizard" rode. 

Bewildered! — looking for a road 
To lead him to the nearest ford. 

When Emma Sansom, buxom lass. 
Had seen the fleeting Yankees pass, 

Mounted the steed at Forrest's side. 
Offered him to the ford to guide. 

Her mother protested, but in vain. 
For Emma was a heroine. 

Onvv^ard ! "adown the winnowing wind 
Rode Mars, Minerva seated behind." 

Yet, fast and faster still they rode 
Until was reached the guarded ford. 

17 



Halting — the maiden swinging down, 
Holding before her homespun gown 

To catch the balls that came across 
The creek at Forrest and his horse. 

Whistling! flying! thick and fast! 
The bullets from the musket blast. 

They seamed and gashed her homespun skirt, 
(Brave Girl! Thank God she was not hurt!) 

"For breastworks? Nay, please step aside, 
Your services. Ma'am, suffice to guide." 

Waving her bonnet in the air, 
Outspake the Maiden, bold and fair. 

To alleviate the General's distress, 

''All's well! they've only wounded my dress." 

On the shore the firing "sentinel 
Espied the Maiden, LaPucelle. 

"Forbear thy shots," the leader said, 
"Behold! the Maid is not afraid." 

Down went the arms of the musketeers. 
Up went their simultaneous cheers. 

Now, Emma Sansom (Johnson late). 
Sleeps far away in the Lone Star State. 

"The V/izard" sleeps on his Mother's breast. 
Nor he nor she with "Here We Rest." 

But twain, they live in memory one: 
Our bravest daughter, our valiant son. 



18 



OUR PRESIDENT. 

By S. J. WiLLINGHAM. 

"Long live our Chief Executive!" 

This is my prayer intent; 
To him all homage duly give, — 

God, bless our President! 

Inflexible of soul and w^iU, 

On truth and honor bent, — 
The Dove of Peace would nurture, still 

No principle relent. 

Though rage the blasting storms w^ithout, 

And fiercer gales w^ithin, 
They fail to shake his purpose, stout 

In Justice' cause to win. 

Yea, when the Lusitania sank 

'Twas not his power to save 
The hundred souls with her. that sank 

Beneath the angry wave, — 

But firm in Honor's cause he stood. 
Nor was he moved by War's 

Vain excuses for guiltless blood 
He unfeelingly draws; 

Nor by dissension, where should be 

Full loyalty of heart; 
In the sweet name of Libert'^'' 

From his best friend did part. 

Stand on, then, our unmitred King, 

For the holy cause j^ou love, 
Wise as the serpent, with his sting. 

And harmless as a dove. 



19 



THE CRUCIFIXION, BURIAL, AND 
RESURRECTION. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Near nineteen hundred fickled years have fled 
Since buried was the Man who was not dead — 
Nor buried long — what earthly stone or sod 
Would presume to confine the Son of God? 

As He stood there in Pilate's Judgment Hall, 
Quizzed by the governor and sneered by all, 
Serene and guiltless, not a word He said. 
But to the Father secretly He prayed; 
Then Pilate, yielding to the rabble's whim, 
Said, "Take Him though I find no fault in Him" 
Deliver'd Him, then washed from his hands the stain, 
Content to let it on his heart remain. 

The soldiers stripped Him of His raiment shorn, 
The scarlet robe beseemed the crown of thorn; 
They spat upon Him, mocked His every deed. 
Upon the head they smote Him with the reed; 
Exchanged it, when their thirst was satisfied, 
Then led Him away to be crucified. 

No vehicle, drawn by the sturdy horse. 
Bore away the Lord or His cumbrous cross; 
But, driven on by the relentless horde. 
The Lord of Life w&s forced to bear His load — 
Until, when they had reached a place, Cyrene, 
His footsteps falter and His shoulders creen, 
One, Simon by name, forced, to save delay, 
Relieved Him, bore it the rest of the way. 

At last, Golgotha, the place of a skull, 
They reached, there halted a stout tree to cull, 
Then gave Him drink of vinegar and gall. 
He tasted, then He would not drink at all. 
The culmination of their vilest plots. 
His garments parted, for His vesture cast lots; 
Above Him placed these words to tell the news — 
The inscription: Jesus, the King of the Jews. 

20 



upon the cross they nailed on either side 
One thief to bless, the other to deride; 
The edged sv^'ord they thrust into His side, 
A crimson stream gushed the redeeming tide. 

They mocked, they jeered, the passing multitude, 
"Come down now if Thou be the Son of God." 
Likewise, the Chief Pries is, joining with the throng, 
Reviled, abused Him, heedless of the wrong. 
For three hours darkness pervaded the land, 
They Avere perplexed, they could not understand; 
"Eli, Eli; lamasabacthani," 

"Hush! hush!" they said, "He calleth for Eli"— 
Anon, that cry broke on the trembling host, 
'Tv/as done! the Savior yielded up the ghost. 

The Earth shook and the rocks rent as from blows. 

The graves were opened and the saints arose; 

The veiling of the Temple rent in twain. 

They v/hispered, "Surely the Lord has been slain!" 

Late, when the day was nearing to its close. 
When sv/eet Oblivion soothes all the heart's woes. 
Then Joseph came, allured by Love's reward, 
Of Pilate sought the body of the Lord. 
It gained, with linen fine and spotless all 
Wrapped it and bore it away to the pall. 
Where, waiting anxiously upon the scene, 
Was IVIary and one, Mary R'lagdalene; 
A sepulcher, hewn out to be his own. 
Laid it there, rolled across the door a stone. 

Next day the chief Priests and the Pharisees 
Came unto Pilate with entreating pleas; 
"Sir, we remember that deceiver said, 
'Three days hence I shall arise from the dead.' 
Com.mand, therefore, the sepulcher made tight, 
Lest His disciples steal Him off by night," 
"Ye have a watch, make it sure as ye can," 
Thus Pilate spake against the Son of Man; 
They departed unto the tomb alone; 
They set a watch, they sealed the door of stone. 

21 



The Sabbath ended, as the day did break, 

An Angel came dov;n and the Earth did quake; 

Back from the door he rolled the massive stone, 

This task completed, he sat thereupon; 

His countenance was like the lightening's glow, 

His raiment was as white as driven snow; 

With fears the keepers shake from foot to head. 

Spellbound and speechless, as if they were dead. 

At the first dawn, the gleaming day's return, 
Two v/omen came unto the sacred urn; 
The cock-crow, which poor Peter wept to hear, 
Told the two Marys that the day was near. 
"I know ye seek the Lord; He is not here; 
Lo! He is risen, go be of good cheer." 
Thus spake the angel; then with joy of heart, 
And trembling fear they quickly did depart. 

When on a mount assembled the eleven. 
The Lord, ere He ascended unto Heaven, 
Gave this command: Go preach unto all men 
My sayings ; lo ! I live alway. Amen. 



A PRAYER. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

"God bless our President!" 
Let this, with one consent, 
Lord, be our prayer intent. 

Uphold, as Thou hast done, 
His hands; may we, as one, 
Be each a loyal son. 

Give him skill to discern. 
While war's red fagots burn. 
The peace for which we yearn. 

Grant, Thou, our Scions may, 
In this tempestuous day. 
Stand by him in the fray; 

22 



May they, united, stand 
One undivided band, 
Defenders of our land. 

Let us, unceasing, pray 
For that more distant day 
When peace shall reign for aye. 



LIBERTY OR DEATH? 

By S. J. WiLLINGHAM. 

Life or death — which shall it be? 
Thraldom or liberty? 

The sable cloud? 

The deathly shroud? 
Or that same banner, floating full and free 
O'er a brave people, vain of liberty? — 

Or shall that banner fall? 
And, falling, forfeit all 

They fought to gain? 

Through toil and pain 
Held up its colors to a breathless world: 
Shall it now droop, in shame forever furled? 

Thrice hath the Eagle soared 
High o'er the Eastern horde; 

Twice from the air, 

Crouched in his lair, 
On the Lion, with sharp beak and talons strong, 
Hath sprung, triumphant over shame and wrong. 

Shall his tri-colored wings 
Be clipped by tyrant kings? 

To soar no more 

From shore to shore — 
From land to land, above the boundless sea, 
The common highway of the brave and free? 

23 



REMINISCENCE. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Gay woodlands strolling through in early spring, 

Where flow'rs bloom sweetest, sweetest the birds sing; 

Swift coasting- down the hill's steep rugged side 

Upon a barrel stave, the rustic slide; 

The meadow brook, the woodland creeping by, 

We waded through, my cousin Jim and I, — 

Or, if our aquatic desires were tart. 

Plunged in, denude, feigned at the swimmer's art 

Until, exhausted, wrinkled, from the sport, 

We stopt, at length, to seek another sort— 

Lest, an injunction we had disobeyed, 

Our parents chased us from the brook dismayed 

Ere our aquatic thirsts were gratified, — 

Should V. e escape the lash, left satisfied. 

Picked up our canes, stuck on the hook the bait. 

Spat on it; named it; left the rest to fate — 

Sometimes for hours sat holding out our bribe, 

(Not all were suckers — all the "finny tribe,") 

Without a "bite," a nibble at our line. 

Again, the cork bobbed, the assuring sign, 

We jerked! — to our joy or to our chagrin, 

He fell safe on the bank or fell back in. 

Foot raced, or made frog-houses in the sand, 

Raced on our all-four's — do you understand? 

Loved venture, so we climbed the tallest trees, 

To view the landscape, cstch the freshest breeze; 

Anxious to be a man. and share the lover's jilts, 

Vv'^alked on torn walkers— some folks call 'em stilts, — 

Mock horses rode of hickory limb or cane, 

(Queer equines, too, v/ithout a tail or mane.) 

Stout bows made we from the toughest rattan, 

Which shot an vrrov/ many, many a span; 

With rubber fiippet or a tv/ine sling-shot 

Threw at birds (seldom hit them) or a spot. 

Searched for the apple mellow, luscious peach, 
All other orchr^rd fruit there was in reach ;^ 
Shook from the long, caressing, climbing vine 
The cluatered erapo, the sable muscadine; 

24 



Found where grew the ripe, ruddy, juicy plum; 
To chew, picked from its tree the oozing gum; 
At times, perchance, (though not by stealth, a felon,) 
Plucked from its stem the striped watermelon, 
Sought for the broad expanding oak tree's shade, 
Clove it wide, scratched the rind for melonade, 
Sipped the red potion, bubbling to the brim, — 
Some times we had! myself and Cousin Jim. 
Pulled flowers from the nearby hill and brake, 
Chased from his lair the piled, wiggling snake. 
Heard the wind moaning through the swaying trees. 
And "songs of labor" of the humming bees, — 
Ourselves, expert chirography to teach, 
Our names, the date, carved on the stoutest beech; 
Or, when, (in eighteen hundred-ninety-eight,) 
War clouds rose, in the darkness, wrote the date. 

How pleasant following, on a summer morn, 
Our herd, to v/ard them from the neighbor's corn; 
Yet, while they gleaned from meadow, hill, and glade 
Their fare, like truants, from our task, we played; 
Variety v/e liked, and held it light 
In our child minds by turns to play and fight — 
Quite justly, too, for no malicious thought 
Burned long in our hearts after we had fought; 
But suddenly our eyes scanned o'er the lea, 
"Where is our herd! where are the browsing kee!" 
Not there! with heart sad, visages forlorn, 
Lo ! we beheld them in the neighbor's corn. 

The owner saw them, yelled in thunder tones, 
"What means all this, Jim Martin and Sam Jones? 
Seems like to me ye mind your business fine, 
Post haste; out of my field your devilish kine!" 
We listened, but replied to him no word, 
But hastily drove from his field our herd. 

Ah! cousin Jim, friend of my childhood days, 
We are men now, diverged are all our ways; 
On thee, Time has bestov/ed a liberal share 
Of wealth, on me hardships and worldly care — 
With poverty I've struggled long and hard, 
(Was other fate e'er shared by luckless bard?) 
But, wealth withheld for aye, I'll not repine 
While thou are near, sweet Poesy, and art mine. 

26 



IN MEMORY OF 
JULIA STUDWICK TUTWILER, 

Who died in Birmingham, Ala., March 24, 1916, and whose 
ashes were committed to Mother Earth, whence they 
came, at Havana, Ala., March 30, 1916. 

By S. J. WiLLINGHAM. 



The sun is shining; bright and clear, 
The sweetest season of the year, — 
The blithesome spring, anon, is here. 

A time when we should all be glad. 
Fain of the blessings we have had — 
But, ah! — alas! — we all are sad. 

Our land is free from war's dark sway, 
Whence all our sorrow, then, to-day? 
This: A brave soul passed away. 

Staunch friend to Learning's holy cause, 
Keeper of Heaven's just by laws, 
Thou, worthy of our heart's applause. 

The poor girl knew thee, knew thee well, 
The prisoner, in his bleak cell, 
Of thy philanthropy can tell. 

Bard, patriot, profoundest sage, 
These all thy powers did engage: 
Enlighten, purify thy age. 

Where'er thy footstep made advance, 
On Britain's shore or strand of France, 
Thy native state held thee in trance. 

Rise, then, her sons, from east to west, 
From southern shore to mountain crest, 
Shout, "Alabama! Here We Rest!" 

26 



THE MOUNDS. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

Near where the Warrior's silvery tide 
Glides on by leaps and bounds, 

O'er meadow and by mountain side, 
Rise the historic Mounds. 

"Historic?" — yea, beneath whose crest 

The ashes of a race 
Almost extinct, to which the West 

Her first-born sons may trace. 

The Warrior sleeps in peace below. 

The tokens of his pride, 
The axe, the tomahawk, the bow. 

Lie buried at his side; 

His earthly semblance rests below 

Yon monumental Mound; 
His spirit bides with Manitou 

In the Happy Hunting Ground. 

The Warrior glides by wood and brake, 

And fields of Indian corn; 
He mourns! — the Warrior's own namesake- 

In vippleings forlorn. 



27 



THE CRUISE OF THE ALABAMA. 

By Sam Jones Willingham. 

The Alabama, flaunting to the breeze 
Her pennons, met Semmes near the Azorez; 
Who boarded her, with his courageous crew 
From the bold Sumter — yea, all save a few. 

Off westward, like a meteor, she dashed; 
Into the luckless Hatteras' side she smashed, 
While her commander, with his gallant horde, 
Of the doomed ship, saved every man on board. 

Thence, to Jamaica, M'^here music and smiles 
Refreshed her crew; from the West India Isles 
She steered northward — 'twas a bold, daring feat, — 
VVith immunity she passed the "toll gate." 

A few leagues she passed from the Empire town. 
The skipper trembled vv^ho heard her renown; 
The northern merchant felt her blasting breath. 
The Arctic whaler thought her name Vv'as "Death." 

Then, turning, she rounded the cape Good Hope, 
With flames she lighted up dark Africa's slope; 
TluTS, condemned, she wrought, frithful to her charge, 
Till the dread morning brought the fierce Kearsarge. 



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